


take me up, cast me away

by redkay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redkay/pseuds/redkay
Summary: In which Merlin has a selective understanding of the term banishment, Arthur needs to lock his doors, and neither of them are half as good at mending themselves as they were at breaking in the first place.





	take me up, cast me away

The druids were surprisingly ruthless negotiators.

Six days in and Arthur was no closer to coming to an agreement than he was when he welcomed the leaders of the major druid clans to court with the intention of formalizing the longstanding unofficial peace between them.  

Not for the first time since this began, Arthur found himself regretting his decision to handle these negotiations alone, with only Iseldir and the other druid chieftains present in the council chambers.  It had been a calculated move, an attempt to assure the druids that his decision to atone for the past was his own and not one borne out of political pressure.

It also, however, made these meetings interminable.

The chieftains had begun arguing amongst themselves telepathically, which usually signaled the end of any sort of productivity.  Arthur raised a hand to announce a recess in the talks for the day when his guests snapped abruptly to attention.

He might have assumed they had finally deigned to give him the respect his crown demanded, but the way they all turned towards the doors with expressions varying from awed to fearful implied that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness.

Arthur cleared his throat.  “Is there something wrong?” he asked Iseldir, who alone seemed to have retained his composure.

Iseldir’s eyes flickered between the door and Arthur before offering a thin smile.  “No, of course not, Your Majesty. We were simply unaware you had invited another party to join our negotiations.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest when he felt something heavy in the air and the doors built to withstand a siege burst open with such force they were near knocked off their hinges.

A cloaked figure swept into the council chambers.  Arthur’s hand went automatically to the hilt of his sword as he stood, sparing a moment to lament the fact that his death at the hands of an angry sorcerer would likely put an end to the peace talks.

Around him, the druids all bent their heads respectfully as the man passed them, the youngest among them even scrambling out of his chair to fall on one knee awkwardly, nearly toppling over in the process.

Arthur had to restrain himself from gaping; while never outwardly disrespectful of him, he had not gotten the impression that the druids recognized any authority aside from magic itself.

Iseldir rose as the cloaked man reached the head of the table.  Arthur drew his sword from its scabbard, his fingers ghosting over the ornamented metal.

“Emrys,” Iseldir greeted the hooded man, and while there was a note of reverence in his tone he held his gaze steadily.

“Iseldir,” replied a familiar voice.  “I apologise for the interruption, but I’m afraid I have urgent business to discuss with His Majesty.”  He glanced back at Arthur as he lowered his hood. “Put down your sword, Arthur, you look ridiculous.”

**

The druids filed out with their eyes averted, which upon reflection, Arthur decided was thoroughly ludicrous.  Maybe he had struck an impressive pose barging in like that, his cloak whipping behind him like an angry wraith (he wondered sometimes if sorcerers practiced such things in the mirror), but on closer inspection the cloak was shabby and clearly fraying at the edges.  His eyes were shadowed, as though he hadn’t slept for days, and he was as scrawny as Arthur could ever remember seeing him. And he was pretty sure he could spot the end of a ratty old neckerchief peeking out from underneath all that black.

Really, it was just _Merlin_.

Merlin, who was now wandering around the council chambers, examining the portion of the rear wall that had been rebuilt after Morgana’s last attempt on the throne, the extravagantly ornamented chair that now stood beside Arthur’s own, the round table where Merlin had once sat beside him as an equal, and where Arthur had first sown the seeds of his kingdom.

He wondered what Merlin saw when he looked at it.

The silence had stretched on to the point of discomfort but Merlin was too busy caressing the windowpane for gods only knew what reason to notice.  Arthur resigned himself to making the first move.

“Was that entirely necessary?” he asked, gesturing in a way he hoped encompassed Merlin’s ridiculously dramatic entrance.

Merlin turned to face him for the first time since the druids had taken their leave, his eyes glinting mischievously.  “No, but it _was_ fun,” he said with the air of a naughty child.

Arthur blanched; he couldn’t remember the last time Merlin had joked with him.  His silence was reply enough and Merlin’s eyes shuttered before he turned away again.

“Urgent business, you said?”  He tried to infuse as much impatience into his voice as possible, determined to bring this meeting back to safe territory.

“Hm.  Yes. Well, not particularly urgent, but certainly business.  Of an important sort, that is.”

He spoke quickly, gazing out the window again, and with that peculiar cadence he’d adopted sometime after leaving Camelot, as though he sometimes forgot that he was speaking to someone besides himself.  It made Arthur’s jaw clench in irritation.

“Don’t suppose you could be more specific.”

“Could I?  Of course. ‘Will I’ is probably the more relevant question.  After all, what _incentive_ do I have?”

Arthur ignored the pointed jibe and crossed his arms.  Merlin flicked his eyes over Arthur’s posture and sighed, sounding almost disappointed that Arthur didn’t rise to the bait.

“Bayard thinks Camelot is weak in the wake of Morgana’s repeated attacks.  He’s planning a siege once he’s rounded up a large enough army, most likely not until Samhain at the earliest.  He has it in his head to take your lands as his own and begin consolidating the kingdoms.”

“He means to break the peace treaty?”  Arthur recalled his father’s pride when he’d managed to ally Camelot with its two fiercest enemies and felt a surge of anger deep in his gut.

“Yes, Arthur, declaring war does tend to disturb the peace.”  Merlin’s voice was mocking but he watched Arthur intently.

“Oh, shut up, Merlin,” he said, the old admonishment falling easily from his lips.  Merlin blinked and looked away. “Any chance we can head this off at the pass?”

Merlin shrugged.  “The servants say Bayard is feeling the pressure of age; he wants to leave a legacy behind.  The prince, on the other hand, is still wary of ruling over a kingdom as large as Mercia, much less adding Camelot to it.  If you nudge him in the right direction, he may be able to talk sense into his father.”

“I’ll dispatch one of the knights as soon as possible with gifts as a sign of Camelot’s good will and continued friendship.  As for our supposed weakness—“

“You could throw another one of your stupid tourneys to prove your manliness.”

“To assert the knights of Camelot’s superiority in battle, but yes, that is the general idea.  If nothing else, it will make him think twice before challenging us.”

Arthur smiled bitterly.  A war with Mercia would be brutal, but for months he’d known that the battlefield would be the only way to decisively prove to the neighbouring kingdoms that Camelot was not easy prey.  There had been too many border skirmishes and veiled comments at court to ignore. Bayard may be the first, but he was not the only king questioning Arthur’s right to rule.

Merlin was staring pensively out the window again.  The days were getting shorter, and the orange sunlight framed his face oddly, turning his features fey.  Suddenly it occurred to Arthur to wonder how Merlin got here. Had he rode from some back alley tavern in Mercia straight to Camelot, or had he simply vanished and appeared in a puff of smoke?

“I was meeting with the Druids,” he said in an effort to refocus the conversation, although for Merlin’s benefit or his own he wasn’t quite sure.  

“Hm.”  Merlin’s fingers tapped a pattern on the windowsill like they used to when he was impatient to escape Arthur’s chambers before he could be assigned more chores.

“We were discussing a peace treaty,” Arthur tried again.

“I assumed you weren’t simply rounding them up for execution.  You have dungeons for that.” His lips were curled in a smile, but there was a hard edge to his voice that Arthur never knew how to respond to.

So like everything else new and strange about his old servant, he chose to ignore it.  “Your information is valuable. Camelot thanks you for your service.” Merlin snorted. “I’ll convene the council tomorrow morning, and I’ll need you there to repeat what you’ve heard, in as much detail as possible.”

Merlin looked mutinous, but Arthur raised a hand and continued.  “If what you say is true, it needs to be believed by all involved.  An anonymous source won’t cut it.”

“But a disgraced manservant will?” Merlin sneered, his features twisted cruelly.  Arthur sighed.

“It’s the inner council, only my trusted advisors.  I’ll have a servant make up the guest chambers.”

“I can sleep—“

“In the guest chambers,” Arthur cut him off, a headache building in his temple.  Merlin studied him for a long moment before stalking out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind him with a wave of his hand.

Alone, Arthur sunk back into his chair and buried his head in his hands.

 _Merlin_.

**

The first time Merlin had flagrantly disregarded his banishment was seven months after it had been instituted, and Arthur very nearly hadn’t noticed.

During an all too rare hunting trip, Gwaine spent a good chunk of the prime of the day coaxing an injured falcon down from a tree branch while Arthur scowled and implored him to either put the thing out of its misery or let them continue hunting.

When the bird finally hopped onto Gwaine’s forearm, the knight petted it indulgently and promptly insisted on keeping the damned creature with them for the rest of the trip, no matter how many times he cawed just in time to wreck a shot or alert a deer.

“Perhaps Gaius could fix that wing of his,” Elyan suggested.

“I bet you could train him,” Leon said.  “It’d be nice to have a proper hunting falcon.”

Gwaine just smirked and fed the bird a bit of his meat.  “Something tells me he wouldn’t take to training easily.”

It wasn’t until they were ambushed by a group of mercenaries that Arthur suspected something might be afoot.  Then again, it was hard to miss when the falcon leapt off of Gwaine’s shoulder and breathed fire onto the last, hidden assassin that had raised his sword as Arthur stooped to check on an injured Leon.

Before the king could do much more than gape unattractively, the bird took flight again, soaring off into the distance, injured wing apparently forgotten.

No one dared speak on the ride back to the castle, but Gwaine whistled a jaunty tune up until the edge of the forest, when Percival finally kicked him so hard he nearly lost his seat.

**

“Is it true?” Gwaine demanded the moment Arthur set foot outside the council chambers.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sir Gwaine.”

“Don’t give me that.  I’ve heard from six different servants that Merlin is in the castle, each of their tales taller than the last.”

Gwaine was eyeing Arthur’s sword suspiciously as they strode down the corridor, as though he half expected to find Merlin’s lifeblood staining it.  

“He comes bearing urgent news from Mercia.  I’ve offered him temporary asylum until our business is concluded and for now, that is all you need to know.  You there,” he calls to a passing serving boy. “Find Merlin and tell him he is to join us for the feast tonight.”

Gwaine arched an eyebrow at him as the servant stumbled into a bow and scampered off.  “Guinevere will insist,” Arthur said defensively.

“Right.  And this urgent business?”

“Will be discussed at a council meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, sire,” Gwaine said with a mock bow.  He turned on his heel and headed down the way they came.

“Shouldn’t you be on the practice grounds this time of day?” Arthur called after him.

“Ah, well it seems I’ve come down with a rather severe pox in my nether regions.  Not to worry, though, I’m headed straight to Gaius’ chambers to have it looked at.”  With a wink, Gwaine disappeared around a corner.

**

The second time Merlin returned to Camelot was barely a month after the first, and this time Arthur didn’t see him at all.

Gaius had taken ill, _just a slight cold_ he assured anyone who asked before nearly hacking up a lung into a handkerchief.   _I’ll be back on my feet in no time._

But as the weeks turned into months Gaius’ condition did not improve.  Arthur had appealed to him to take on a new apprentice to help with his workload, but Gaius had fixed him with a steely grimace each time, and Arthur found himself letting the matter drop.

Instead, Guinevere increasingly spent her days in the physician’s chambers, ostensibly to talk with an old friend but brewing potions and making poultices as she did.  As his betrothed it was unseemly for her to be working as an apprentice, but Arthur could not object when he saw the light return to Gaius’ eyes, nor did he ever ask Guinevere what they spoke about in those long hours sequestered in his rooms.

No amount of kindness could cure old age, however, and as winter drew closer Gaius was restricted to his bed, flush with fever as his body struggled to fight off the strains of infection a younger man could take in stride.

Guinevere came to him one morning with tears glistening in her eyes, and he knew this would be the end.

He couldn’t say whether it was the memory of his own father and the friendship he and Gaius had once shared, or perhaps the thought of Merlin, traitorous but worn and red-eyed, holding vigil with Arthur the night the king died that does it, but that evening he found himself sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair at Gaius’ bedside, watching a man who he’d known since birth, but who felt nothing more than a stranger to him now.

“You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” he asked, the chair scraping against the floor as he pulled in close, his elbows coming to rest on the thin woolen blanket.  Gaius breathed deeply, a rattling, awful sound, and blinked his eyes open. He said nothing.

Arthur was not so lacking in self-awareness that he didn’t realize how the physician felt about him these days.  But he also knew that Gaius needed him there as the closest approximation to the man he did want.

Gaius slipped into an uneasy sleep not long after, and Arthur took the opportunity to stretch his legs.

Merlin’s bedroom was exactly as he left it, down to the clothes strewn on the floor and the cabinet drawers left half open.  Arthur’s chest tightened at the sight.

He had the sudden urge to tear it apart, to find in it the clues to Merlin’s secret that he’d willfully overlooked.

Because there had to have been clues.  Sorcerer he may be, but he was still _Merlin_ .  The idiot probably kept a journal detailing his treason.   _Dear diary, today I conjured a flower because I am a giant girl.  Love, Merlin._

His fingers itched to rip apart the floorboards, to uproot everything until he had solid, incontrovertible proof of his betrayal.  He kicked angrily at the table beside the bed and took vindictive pleasure in the crash it made as it overturned.

But his rage evaporated as quickly as it came on, leaving him hunched over and spent.  He scanned the room dully, and his eyes landed on a small wooden carving lying on the floor next to the bed.

He’d seen it plenty of times when storming into his manservant’s chambers in the morning.  It was the only of Merlin’s possessions that seemed to have any real value, monetary or sentimental, and was always placed reverently in the centre of the table; the table Arthur had just kicked so violently.

He picked it up off the floor, his fingers ghosting over the deep crack between the dragon’s wings.

He’d never thought much on it before, assuming the fondness for dragons was just another of Merlin’s eccentricities.  The one time he asked where a peasant got his hands on such a fine carving, Merlin had mumbled that the dragonlord had given it to him, and given Merlin’s odd attachment to the man, and the air of misery he’d projected for months after his death that Arthur had no desire to rekindle, Arthur had let the subject drop.

Now, though, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder whether there was more to that story.  Had Merlin known the dragonlord before they went on the quest to find him? Or had they simply bonded over their shared magic?  Had the man given Merlin some spell to aid him in slaying the beast (for Arthur had been forced recently to admit that many of his victories against magical foes may not have been entirely his own)?

With a sigh, Arthur sat heavily on Merlin’s bed, back resting against the scratchy pillow.  He ran his fingers over the smooth wood, admiring the craftsmanship. Perhaps Balinor had been a tradesman of some kind before the Purge; he certainly couldn’t have made a living as a dragonlord.  Unless that sort of power would have afforded him a place at court, in the time before magic was banned.

The figure was smooth and stained slightly with the oils of one’s hand.  It was clearly lovingly cared for, cherished in a way Arthur never thought Merlin capable of when it came to material possessions, or at least material possessions belonging to his master.  Arthur clutched it tightly, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe, his chest weighed down by Gaius’ rattling breaths, his own anger and betrayal and shame, and the stupid toy that Merlin had loved but left behind, now broken in Arthur’s hands.

When he woke, it was to the disorienting feeling of being in an unfamiliar place and having slept without meaning to.  He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, his fingers still curled tightly around the wooden dragon. The thin blankets were pulled over his shoulders, although Arthur was sure he’d nodded off unintentionally.

With a groan, he pulled himself out of the bed and returned to the main chambers without a backward glance to Merlin’s bedroom.  Gaius was breathing easier now, his complexion much improved since Arthur had left him. There was a slight scent of porridge in the air, and a nearly empty bowl by Gaius’ bed.

Feeling strangely unsurprised, Arthur nodded slightly and returned to his own chambers for the remainder of the night.  He could inform Guinevere of Gaius’ miraculous recovery in the morning.

Before he settled into bed, he slipped the unmarred wooden dragon out of his pocket and placed it on the windowsill, where the early morning light made it shine almost gold.  He climbed into his bed, content with the knowledge that if Merlin hadn’t wanted him to have it, he would have stolen it back as he slept.

**

The servants were indeed abuzz with the news of Merlin’s return to Camelot.  They gossiped meanly about the nature of his visit and the chances of a good beheading, the likes of which they hadn’t seen in months.

They went abruptly silent and pale, however, at any sudden noise, and only resumed their chatter when they were certain the object of their discussion wasn’t lurking in the shadows, preparing to turn them all to toads.

It wasn’t all bad, though.  Arthur caught one of the kitchen girls who had always snuck Merlin extra pastries giggling and allowing another maid to fix a ribbon in her hair.  The cook, who took a liking to no one and was more likely to whack Merlin over the head than to give him a meal, had added an extra course of rabbit to the feast that night, and snapped at anyone who mentioned it.

Arthur knew all this because, despite having many important kingly duties to attend to, he had spent the remainder of his afternoon hiding in various alcoves and passageways in the hopes of avoiding his royal councillors.  It was, after all, only the deepest fear of Merlin that had prevented them from ordering his arrest already.

“My lord.”

Arthur winced and stood with all the dignity of a man found hiding in a room that could, if one was feeling uncharitable, be named a closet.  “Guinevere.”

Gwen’s expression was caught somewhere between amused and admonishing, and she closed the door behind her.  “Do you plan on hiding forever? It will be difficult to conduct audiences in here.”

Arthur made no reply but to return to his uncomfortable seat and avoid her eye.

“The castle rumour mill is running wild.  I’ve heard from no fewer than three servants that my husband was viciously attacked by the druids today, and that the throne is now in the hands of the man who rides with dragons.”

Arthur inwardly cursed his decision to make audiences with his people open to the public.  The story a farmer related about a man with fire at his fingertips who saved the crops of his village from a nasty disease before flying off on the back of a white dragon had spread far and wide, each retelling more absurd than the last.  Although, Arthur allowed, it was fairly absurd to begin with.

“The servants speak prematurely; my crown is safe at least for another day.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Gwen sighed, falling to her knees to meet his eye.  She said nothing more, but interlaced her fingers in his, and ran a soft hand through his hair.

He was more than a little surprised; they rarely discussed Merlin, and when his name did come up, Gwen usually treated him to so cold a look it banished him from her chambers for a week.

“Come,” she said at length.  “It is nearly time for the feast, and Sir Leon has been searching for you for hours.”

He consented, but no sooner had they left the closet than were they accosted by the servant he’d dispatched earlier, with a distinctly wild look in his eye.

“Your majesty!” he exclaimed, bowing hastily.  “Sir—Lord—er, The Sorcerer has declined your invitation to dinner tonight.”

“Did he, now?  Well you can tell him—“

“Nothing at all, His Majesty will tell Merlin himself,” Gwen interrupted, before adding in an undertone, “Please, before the poor boy soils himself.”

Arthur glanced at the servant, who was indeed hopping from foot to foot in a strange sort of dance, and waved a hand in dismissal.  The boy fled.

“Fine,” Arthur huffed when he had gone.  “If he wants to sulk in his chambers like a child—“

“Or like a king who hides in closets, perhaps?  No, I believe the time for these games is over. As Queen, I demand his presence at the feast this evening, and I expect you to make it so.  And if I hear you’ve foisted it off on another servant, I will be forced to consult with my best friend the most appropriate means of revenge, and I hear he has a rather unique advantage.”

With that pronouncement, she left him open-mouthed in the corridor.

 

**

 

The third time technically shouldn’t count, as Arthur was over the border to Escetir when it happened.

Still, when he woke up to find his sword ensconced in a scabbard that glowed just a shade too bright in the early morning light, he allowed himself to be petty and counted it all the same.

 

**

 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, striding into the room as though he owned it.  Which he did, so he didn’t feel guilty at the way Merlin started and nearly fell off the bed.  “When the king requests your presence at a feast, you’d do well to accept.”

Having recovered himself, Merlin scowled.  “I’d hardly want to be an imposition, sire,” he said, before beginning to meticulously fold the one tunic he had brought with him.

“It’s not—Look, it’ll be good for you to be there.  It will put the druids at ease when they see other…well, when they see you, anyway.”

Merlin raised a brow.  “Did they look at ease around me earlier today?”

Arthur thought back to the reverent and wary expressions and mentally conceded the point.  

“They’re terrified of me,” Merlin scoffed, more to himself than Arthur.  “For years I didn’t live up to their expectations, and now that I’ve become all they wanted me to they can’t even bear to look me in the eye.”

“Should they be frightened?” Arthur said before he could think better of it.  He’d heard the stories that were whispered in taverns and on the outskirts of his kingdom as well as any.  Merlin simply looked at him, something ancient and sad in his eyes. Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Perhaps you could assist with the negotiations.  It would assure them that I’m serious about what I’m offering.”  The sting of shame he felt every time one of the druids looked at him with thinly veiled distrust, as though they expected it all to be an elaborate trick, still rankled.

“Hardly.  It would have the opposite effect, I think.  They’d believe you were trying to strong-arm them into an agreement.  And besides that, talking to them always gives me a headache. They say one thing, think another, and want something altogether separate from both.  No, this you must do alone, or it’s barely worth doing at all.”

Arthur hated when Merlin talked like this.  The frenzied speech, as though too many ideas were trying to spill out at once was achingly familiar, but the strange wisdom in his eyes was something altogether foreign.

“Still.  You’re expected at the feast.  Guinevere demanded it,” Arthur said with a weak smile.

Merlin’s face closed off again, and Arthur wondered how he ever could have missed the mask that slid smoothly over his features.  “Well, if the Queen demands it, who am I to refuse?” he said with false cheer.

 

**

 

The royal wedding of King Arthur of Camelot and Lady Guinevere was as lavish and impressive as anyone could have dreamt.  Their plans to have a smaller, quiet ceremony in the wake of their failed betrothal had gone out the window early on, and instead Gwen had insisted on sending invitations to every corner of the land.

George dressed him that morning, smoothing his robes with steady, well-practiced hands.  The lead up to the wedding was a blur of rituals and paperwork and all he could recall from the ceremony was Guinevere’s blinding smile.

Afterwards, though, holding her hand tightly as they were presented to the adoring public, he found himself scanning the crowd and the skies, realizing belatedly that he’d been half-expecting a glimpse of messy dark hair or a foolish grin.  He shook his head and turned back to his wife, only to find Guinevere, too, searching the throngs of people with purpose.

He realized suddenly that when she imagined her wedding as a young woman, her father would have been looking on with a fond smile, Morgana probably beside her, and Merlin clapping enthusiastically in the audience.

The gaiety was infectious, though, and there was no time for regret in the hours of feasts and dancing that follow.  Gwaine gave them his best wishes in a drunken rant, Sir Leon patted him on the back, and even Gaius’ eyes were teary when he congratulated them.

It wasn’t until days later, in fact, when the excitement had finally died down and they were settling into their shared chambers for the night that Guinevere brought up the subject for the first time in over a year.

“As your wife and your Queen,” she began, brushing her hair herself, still unaccustomed to the idea of having her own maidservants.  “I’m now bound to support your decisions.”

Arthur was stretched out on the bed, already half asleep, and mumbled a vague affirmation, waiting for her to continue.  Instead, she blew out the candles and climbed into the bed beside him.

The words she did not speak hang between them for a long time after.

 

**

 

Of all the interminable state dinners and royal feasts Arthur had been subjected to over the course of his life, this one ranked only beneath ‘that time we welcomed a troll to the family’ as the most painful.

Everyone in the hall was straining to get a glimpse of Merlin, who was seated between Guinevere and Gwaine and looking like he wanted nothing more than to make a run for it.  In a valiant effort to avoid the disapproving gaze of his councillors, Arthur threw himself into a conversation with Iseldir.

“I apologize for the interruption to our discussions this afternoon, I assure you it was unexpected.  I would not have allowed it if it weren’t of the utmost importance.”

“Of course,” Iseldir said graciously, but his eyes were fixed beyond Arthur and judging by the tense life of Merlin’s shoulders, he had a feeling it wasn’t the only conversation that was taking place.  “In fact, I was most pleased to see it.”

“Yes, you seemed to know my—um, you know Merlin?”

Iseldir smiled at him in a way that on anyone else would be called condescending.  “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Emrys on a few occasions. I’m sure you’ll recall your quest to find the Cup of Life?”

Arthur did, although not particularly fondly, especially as he could see where this was going.

“The Cup, I believe, fell into the hands of your enemies after we gave it to you?”

“Morgana did manage to steal it on our way back to Camelot,” Arthur admitted.

“And did great damage to the Balance with it.  So you can understand our hesitance in allowing such magical artifacts to remain in your hands.”  Arthur barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

“Perhaps now is not the time to be discussing business, Iseldir?  Come, have a taste of the pie.”

When he turned to fetch the dish, he caught Merlin watching them closely.  He raised a brow at the eavesdropping, but Merlin didn’t so much as blink. Arthur sighed, remembering the days when Merlin would have spilled wine all over him in his haste to back away.

Back then, he would have sent Merlin to the stocks for a day, and then allowed him to pick the food off his plate to make up for it.  Anger and forgiveness came easy to them both, once.

Merlin finally broke eye contact and turned back to Gwaine, who offered him his cup of wine.  Merlin’s own cup was empty, as none of the servants dared to get close enough to fill it. Arthur sighed again; repealing the laws on magic was going to be difficult from all corners, it seemed.

Guinevere excused herself to her own chambers early, claiming a headache.  She kissed Merlin on the cheek fondly and whispered something in his ear that made his cheeks flush, before fixing Arthur with a steely glare on her way out.  

The absence of the Queen seemed to lower everyone’s propriety considerably, and barely a minute passed before he was accosted by Sir Kay, one of his father’s closest advisors.

“Your Majesty, if I may have a word?”  Arthur gestured for him to take Iseldir’s empty seat, as he’d gone to sit with some of his men.

“With all due respect, Your Highness, might I ask what you’re doing?  Having secret meetings with the druids, dining with a known sorcerer? Magic is still banned in this kingdom.  Why, some of the councillors are beginning to suspect you’ve been enchanted.” He laughed as if they were sharing a private joke, but spoke loud enough to be heard across the table.

Arthur surveyed him over his goblet in the cold way he’d learned from his father.  It didn’t have quite the same cowing effect, but Kay did pale a few shades.

“As I have told you many times these past weeks, I’m treating with the druids to come to an official agreement viable for all parties.  And as for the other charge you’ve levied against me, I don’t recall Merlin ever being formally accused of sorcery. You’ve been listening to petty servant gossip.”

Kay gaped at him, his face regaining its colour in his rage.  “Servant gossip? You banished him yourself, and you’re telling me there is no truth to the rumours?”  His voice echoed in the hall and attracted the attention of the druids across the room. Arthur didn’t look, but he could feel Merlin’s eyes on him.

“I’m the king, Sir Kay, I can choose to banish someone for any reason.  For being a clumsy, hopeless servant, for instance.  Or, perhaps, for questioning their king.”  With a final glance at Kay’s furious face, Arthur turned away and struck up a conversation about new innovations in catapults with a grinning Leon.

The feast wound down a few hours later, after a serving girl spilt half a jug of wine in her attempts to fill Gwaine’s cup without getting within an arms length of Merlin.  Which, Gwaine pointed out helpfully, was unlikely to matter since he could just as easily give her boils from across a training pitch.

Merlin had replied, somewhat drunkenly, that he had in fact invented a spell for pus-filled boils some years ago, at which point plausible deniability decreed that Arthur had to make his exit.

He managed to avoid any more confrontations with his advisors and made a beeline for his chambers, eager to put the entire day behind him.

When he got there, though, peace was not to be found.

He had no sooner started divesting himself of his finery and tossing his sword on the bed, having slammed and locked the door in George’s face, than a voice startled him nearly out of his skin.

“Do _try_ not to lose this, would you?  It wasn’t exactly easy to make, and it would be just my luck for it to wind up in somebody else’s hands.”

Merlin was balancing Arthur’s sword on one hand, looking significantly more sober than he had a few minutes before.

“How did you--?”

Merlin raised a brow.  “How do you think? Seriously, though, if I find out you gave this to a druid boy I’m not going to be pleased with you.”

Arthur’s mind finally caught up with him, and registered the scabbard that had mysteriously appeared that spring morning.  “So it is magic, then,” he said gruffly.

Merlin rolled his eyes at him.  “No, Arthur, I risked my neck to give you a _normal_ scabbard because I was worried you wouldn’t be able to afford one, being _king_ and all.”

Arthur scowled.  “Well excuse me for not just assuming you illegally enchant all my possessions.  How silly of me.”

In the ensuing judgmental silence, Arthur admitted to himself that it probably was silly of him.  His chainmail did have a tendency to buoy him in water when by all rights it should weigh him down, and George had once expounded for the better part of an hour about how miraculous it was that his hauberk was not at all scorched despite the raging inferno that had engulfed him.  Arthur glared at the offending armour where it sat, freshly polished, on the table.

“What are you doing here?”

“The peace negotiations with the druids are taking longer than expected,” Merlin replied matter-of-factly.  Arthur nodded, still unsure of where this was going. “You want to make amends for decades worth of persecution, so you’re likely to concede on almost all reasonable points.  The fact that they’re still unresolved means they’re asking for something you can’t, in good conscience, allow.”

Arthur glared at him suspiciously.  “Have you been mind-talking to Iseldir?  Those are private negotiations, you know.”

“Iseldir brought up the Cup of Life at the feast.  He wants you to give up rights to all magical artifacts in the vaults of the castle, doesn’t he?”

Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair and nearly dislodging his crown, which he yanked off as soon as he realized he was still wearing it. Merlin smirked at him.

“It’s late, Merlin, are you planning on making your point anytime soon?”

“Nearly all of those relics were stolen from various sorcerers your father had killed.  The druids have more right to them than you can claim.”

“They are _safe_ here.  If I give them to the druids, they could trade them to Morgana, or some other sorcerer, and any of them could be used against Camelot, just as the Cup was.  It’s going to be hard enough to push through reform laws without having to explain that I handed the enemy the tools for our destruction in the peace treaty.”

Merlin eyed him coolly.  “The enemy?”

“You know what I mean!  The other side.”

“Of course.”  Merlin dropped the sword on Arthur’s bed and strode towards the door.

“Wait—“ Merlin stopped and faced him, obedient for once.  Arthur deflated somewhat. “Is—Is that all you wanted?”

“I just needed to hear the details from you.”

“Right.  Well. You could, ah.”  Arthur scraped a hand down his face, his ring tugging on the skin of his cheek and wondered when it became so hard to talk to Merlin.  “You could stay. Drink some wine. We didn’t really have a chance to talk at the feast.”

For a moment Merlin’s face softened and he looked like the sweet, idiot boy Arthur had known and loved rather than the strange, powerful man who was a stranger to him.

But the moment passed and the mask fell over his features once more. “There’s nothing I could say that you want to hear, Arthur.  Remember?”

 

**

 

Before everything had gone to hell, Arthur used to be able to discern Merlin’s moods through his way of addressing Arthur.

In the early days, he’d thought it was as simple as a good mood meant ‘Arthur,’ ‘sire’ meant he was angry, and any use of the words ‘your highness’ signaled Arthur should fetch his own supper or expect to be spending a great deal of time over his chamber pot.

But Merlin had always had hidden depths, and Arthur soon learned that there was much more to it than that.  It became a kind of game to extrapolate as much as possible from a few short words; something to entertain him during endless council meetings about grain shortages.

When he needed to request something he knew Arthur would not want to grant, Merlin was all formality.  He _sired_ all over the place until Arthur was so disconcerted that he yelled at him to spit it out already.  On the occasions that Arthur did not agree offhand, Merlin would quickly fall back on calling him by his given name; invoking the friendship they both denied existed until he got what he wanted through sheer determination.

In the times he was truly angry, Merlin would call him Arthur, unable to check his emotions as a proper servant would.  It was when he was disappointed in him that he reverted to ‘sire,’ with a look on his face that always made Arthur’s stomach roll uneasily.

When Merlin was upset, he turned on the formality, as if to put up a wall between himself and Arthur, warning him to stay back.  It was those times that Arthur pushed the hardest, determined to return to the comfort of Merlin’s goofy grin and cheerful insolence.

( _that day, it was only_ Arthur, Arthur please, just listen _, but Arthur hadn’t wanted to hear it, then)_

It was all surprisingly sophisticated, but then Merlin was never as much of an idiot as either he or Arthur pretended he was.  An elderly traveller had once told him that a fool could not imitate a wise man, but it took great wisdom to play the fool. At the time, he mocked Merlin for shying away from the old hag, but now he supposed it was just another in a long line of stories he only had one side to.

These days, he couldn’t work out any pattern in Merlin’s addresses.  He greeted him by his name one minute and spit his title out with bitter resentment the next.  The easy familiarity that always existed between them was gone, thrown away by both in a fit of pique.

It was only as he was finally falling into a fitful sleep that it occurred to him that Merlin might be just as confused at how to relate to Arthur as he was to Merlin.

 

**

 

He was not ignorant to the fact that Merlin broke the terms of his exile even when Arthur was not involved.

Gwaine, for instance, had announced a striking preference for a tavern half a day’s ride from the citadel within a few months of Merlin’s disappearance.  The mead, he said, could not be done without for longer than a fortnight. As it meant he no longer vanished for days at a time on unsanctioned patrols before returning reluctantly, quiet and furious, Arthur never bothered to call him out on it.

And more than one patrol came back dirty and shifty-eyed, with stories so absurd he had to restrain himself from laughing in their faces.  Then again, he supposed, they were not more unlikely than ‘the arrow pierced your armour and you fell and knocked yourself out.’

It was worrying to realize that rather than Merlin being a particularly skilled liar, everyone at court was just astonishingly gullible.

No, Merlin was still skulking in the shadows and protecting the kingdom that had disowned him and the king who had cast him aside.

Those who whisper tales of the powerful sorcerer Emrys around campfires say he does it for love.

Arthur rather thought he did it out of spite, but then, maybe it’s the same thing.

 

**

 

When Arthur woke it was still mostly dark.

“George moved everything around,” Merlin complained, rifling through Arthur’s drawers.  “I had a system.”

Arthur rolled onto his back, resigning himself to not getting any more sleep that night.  “Yes, I’m well aware of your system.”

Thorough investigation into this system showed that whenever Arthur stopped paying attention, Merlin did his chores on a strictly weekly basis.  Meaning, that is, that he did one chore a week, cycling through them all at a snail’s pace, and then finally starting the process over again when Arthur had dwindled down to his last clean set of smallclothes.  It was oddly efficient.

Since George had taken over, he never wanted for anything and his clothes had become oppressively clean.

“If there was some way to ensure the safety of the artifacts, would you have any objection to parting with them?”

“What.”  Arthur burrowed his way under the blankets, sure that Merlin hadn’t broken into his chambers before dawn to interrogate him about a stupid negotiation that he wasn’t even a part of.

And then his brain caught up to his thoughts and remembered that yes, that was _exactly_ the kind of thing that Merlin would do.

“Do you actually need me to repeat the question, or are you just moping about losing sleep?”  Arthur scowled into his pillow.

“How is this any of your business?  I offered to let you in on the peace talks and you declined.  Ergo, piss off and let me sleep.”

Merlin tilted his head.  “I’m not sure that’s the proper usage of ‘ergo.’”

Arthur growled and hurled a pillow at his head.  Merlin scampered out of his chambers, his easy laugh echoing in his wake.

When he woke next morning, Arthur was nearly certain it had been a dream.

 

**

 

In the council chambers the next morning Arthur eyed Merlin suspiciously, looking for any hints that he may have been up at obscene hours in the morning, harassing his former master.

Unfortunately, there were none to be found.  He looked better rested than he could remember seeing him—clearly royal mattresses suited him.  He almost gave off the impression that he’d run a hand through his hair before coming downstairs, although that was surely some fancy illusion.                                                                        

“I called you here today because we have an envoy from Bayard’s kingdom who comes bearing urgent information.  Merlin, what news do you bring from Mercia.”

His knights had greeted Merlin warmly, but his father’s old councilors stared at Merlin with unveiled suspicion and dislike.  Merlin looked back pleasantly.

“They’re declaring war,” he announced cheerfully.

Arthur sighed.

“In a little more detail, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin rolled his eyes at him, but he could see the twinkle of amusement he used to get when he’d accidentally dyed all Arthur’s tunics light pink and couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.

“Bayard’s health is failing.  The Mercian Court Physician doesn’t believe he’ll last two more winters.  He wants to secure his legacy by conquering Camelot. He’s already shoring up his lords.  The new king in Escetir is aware of their plans but is staying neutral, for the time being, as the kingdom is still recovering from their recent strife.”

That was an understatement; Escetir was the only kingdom that had undergone more recent conflict than Camelot itself.  Since Cenred’s death the crown has passed to three different sovereigns, each with less right and strength to rule than the last.  The kingdom was plunged into debt and poverty, the peasants starving in the fields.

Last winter, Arthur had quietly sent Leon and Gwaine, dressed as common travelers, to Ealdor with provisions.  They reported back that the villagers were healthy and strong, and were enjoying the fruits of a surprisingly bountiful harvest the previous spring despite the drought which had ravished the countryside.  Arthur was irritated that his benevolent gesture was rendered impotent, the sort of irrational annoyance only Merlin could elicit.

“And we are to trust the word of a sorcerer?” Sir Kay demanded, sneering.  “He could be working against us, sowing the seeds of discord to trick us into abandoning our allies.”  

Gwaine growled but Merlin placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“You must admit, Sire, it is suspicious,” Lord Temaire said measuredly.  “How would he come to this knowledge, if not from working closely with Bayard?”  Lord Temaire was one of his father’s most trusted advisors and a powerful liege lord, too powerful to dismiss out of hand.

“He has a point, Merlin.  Who is your source for this information?”

“King Bayard,” Merlin answered baldly, clearly enjoying the chaos he had wrought.

“You see?  He admits his treachery,” Kay started, but Arthur raised his hand to silence him.

“King Bayard told you he was planning to declare war?”

“Well he hardly knew I was there.”  Arthur felt a shiver in the air and he just had time to open his mouth to try to stop Merlin from whatever foolishness he was about to engage in when Merlin’s body seemed to flicker momentarily then snuff out like a candle.

Arthur sighed and poured himself some wine, resigned to a long morning.

 

**

 

This time he senses Merlin in his chambers, the warmth of his presence somehow tangible in the air.

“Thank you for that display, Merlin,” he said, closing the door behind him.  “It will certainly ensure none of my councillors accept the truth of your story.”

Merlin materialized in front of the fire, lounging comfortably on the furs.  His hand was extended towards the flames which danced merrily - unnaturally.

“You think they would have believed me if I were to pretend I stumbled into Mercia’s war plans as a bumbling peasant?  Everyone knows what I am, Arthur, and I’ll never have their respect, but I can have their fear.”

“Is that what you wanted, all those years?  My respect, or my fear?" 

Merlin tilted his head to look up at him from the ground, his eyes tired and sad.

“Not exactly,” he said softly, and the fight drains out of Arthur.

“Did you magic yourself here, then?  Have you just been lounging about while my advisors ran around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to build pyres out of chairs?”

“Of course not.  I stayed to watch.  The spell just made me invisible, I hid out in a corner.  You handled it very well; you never used to be so diplomatic.”

A small part of Arthur felt mollified but he pushed it down vindictively.  “Like you would know diplomacy if it danced in front of you wearing your old servant’s livery.”

Merlin grinned, eyes bright.  “Pour me some wine?” Arthur sputtered indignantly and threw his goblet at Merlin.  The goblet stops midair an inch from Merlin’s face and floats gently into his outstretched hand.

Arthur’s breath caught in his chest.  There was something exquisitely painful about these moments, like he was looking in on a life he could have had if they’d made different choices, or could figure out how to atone for the ones they had made.

He wanted to keep the fragile peace alive but he could feel it falling away, like sand between his fingers.  He poured himself a second goblet of wine and lowered himself to the floor, his feet nudging Merlin’s face and quickly batted away.  “Developed a taste for finery in your travels, have you?”

Merlin snorted.  “Not hardly. If I were to miss anything about Camelot,” and Arthur pretended not to hear the hitch in his voice, “it would be your lavish chambers.  I have traveled enough now to know that there’s no place warmer in all the kingdoms than in front of this fire, right here.” His voice was deeper than Arthur remembered it, but then Arthur always remembered Merlin as the boy he was when he first arrived, queer and callow, with a smile that could blind.

“You know I have my own spies in Mercia, Merlin.”

“I’ve met them.  Almost as effectual as your guards.”

“Yes, well, they do get the job done.  They would have eventually worked out Bayard’s plans and alerted me.  He's hardly going to be laying siege on the castle tomorrow.”

Merlin didn’t tense or move at all, but some of the lassitude drained from the air nonetheless.  “I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.”

“You were banished upon pain of death.  And you’re lounging on my furs drinking my wine." 

“In front of the fire.  You could just roll me into it, if you’re in the mood for a burning.”  

“Would you burn?”

“I’d certainly singe.”  Merlin’s smile was brittle.  Arthur stared into the fire, remembering Merlin’s outstretched arm.   A dragon flew in the shadows of the flames, embers sparking into turrets, crackling into towers.  He thought of Merlin’s statue, hidden in his desk drawer, of Merlin crying over the unicorn, of the sort of man who made flames dance into stories and could turn castles into rubble.

“What’s the point of it,” he asked, eyes watering from the heat of the flames.  

“Must there be a point to everything?” Merlin asked, making the dragon roar with a flick of his fingers.

“Isn’t it just a waste of energy?”

“It's not energy.  There is no exhaustable supply of it, to run out if I use too much.  It’s like air, and every breath I don’t use it is unnatural to me.”

Something twisted painfully in Arthur’s stomach.  His feet felt numb from crouching beside Merlin, his face too warm from the heat of the flames.  “So all those years you were miserable, then?” He didn’t know why he cared; Merlin betrayed him with every breath he took, why should he mind if those breaths were labored.

“Some days, yes.  When it felt like nothing would ever change.  But then everything did,” he said with a wry smile.  

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He wanted to ask Merlin why he waited in his chambers, why he came back to Camelot, why he protected him when he could hardly bear to look at him.  He wanted to ask if Merlin hated him, wanted to know whether he himself hated Merlin.

“I’ll leave at dawn,” Merlin said, eyes back on the flames.  

Arthur nodded, his throat dry.  “Will you go back to Mercia?” The thought needled him for some reason, that Merlin might now call another kingdom his home.

“No.  Horrible place, really.  All the lords bathe in foul smelling salts, simply because they’re expensive.  I could hardly breathe in that castle.”

Arthur smirked.  “Your delicate peasant’s nose always preferred to sport a faint air of goat dung, if I recall.”  

“Only when you shoved me in their pens,” Merlin replied.  He stood, stretching his long limbs. Arthur felt the loss of warmth next to him and fought a foolish urge to tug him back down.  

“Take a horse from the stables.  As pay - a token of appreciation for your information.”  

Merlin shrugged.  “Horses just slow me down, Arthur.”  He reached the door before he stopped.  He didn’t turn back, but Arthur felt his indecision.  “I might be able to help with the Druids,” he said, a note of hesitance in his voice.  “Although I don’t think you’ll like my solution much.”

“When have I ever liked any of your plans.”

“Usually better than yours.  Meet me in the courtyard at dawn, if you like.”

The door clicked shut behind him before Arthur had the chance to reply.  The flames crackled in the fireplace, the shadow of the dragon still flying, mocking him.

 

**

 

Despite violating the terms of his banishment on a near weekly basis, Merlin rarely spoke to Arthur.

On occasion, Arthur caught a glimpse of him, his outstretched hand, his gold eyes, or the whisper of a spell behind his back.

More often he simply felt Merlin’s magic permeating the air, his bones.  It almost made him laugh the first time he realized what it was, that he could have never noticed before.  But, he reasoned, before it was a constant, that warm, sharp tang that was ineffably Merlin. It was only when it was gone that he learned to recognize it for what it was.

Once, nearly two years after he was banished, Morgana attacked Camelot again.  This time there was no undead army, though. She worked quietly, patiently, and insidiously to disrupt the carefully wrought peace in the citadel.  She bewitched siblings, parents, lovers, filling their minds with doubt, suspicion and paranoia, turning the closest of friends into bitter enemies until the streets of Camelot were streaked with blood spilt by its citizens.

Men proclaimed the kingdom cursed by some wicked magic and the people began to flee, finding refuge in the mountains and villages outside the castle walls.  Arthur imprisoned dozens of men, women and children, but even when they could no longer hurt anyone their minds attacked inward and the guards watched helplessly as prisoner after prisoner went mad in the dark of the dungeons.

He didn’t know when Merlin arrived in Camelot or what he did to banish the dark magic overtaking his kingdom.

But when it was done, he knocked softly on the door to Arthur’s chambers.  When he opened the door he could not bring himself to be surprised.

Merlin stood before him, haggard and exhausted, dark rings under his eyes like the time he’d broken his nose falling out of a tree.  His clothes were torn and dirty, singed at the edges and his hands were blistered and raw. He looked like a warrior returned from battle, like a stranger. 

“Morgana is gone.  She will not return, not for a long while this time.”

Arthur nodded and gestured Merlin in numbly.  “There’s a basin,” he said, half offering. As always, Merlin needed no invitation and hissed as he submerged his hands in the cool water, his eyes closed. 

“She will survive?” He did not know what answer he hoped for.

“Yes.”  Merlin drew his hands out of the basin and pulled a chair from the table, the wood scratching against the floor.  “Camelot will be safe, for the time being.” Merlin smiled at him tiredly, his teeth glinting in the firelight. Arthur could close his eyes and believe it was any other evening, Merlin exhausted from polishing every piece of armor in the armory, his hands raw and sore, eyes dancing, too pleased with himself after a clever comment or a new ridiculous insult.

“What do you want,” Arthur asked, still standing by the open door.  Merlin’s smile faded and his posture tensed, awkward and unsure in his seat.  “In exchange for your assistance.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, his voice hoarse.

“I can have the steward provide you with a purse.  Enough to set you up comfortably in the kingdom of your choosing.  God knows you won’t be able to find work, those rags you’re in are proof enough of that.”  

“I don’t want your money,” Merlin started heatedly, rising from his chair, from Arthur’s chair, where he would sit and lose at dice on winter evenings when it was too cold to care about rank or duties or stations, when the fire crackled merrily and never seemed to need stoking.

“Land, then?  Or are you angling for a position at court - do you miss having the ear of a king?  Money is all I can offer you, so you ought to take it while I’m still feeling generous.”

Merlin looked at him in the eye like he never learned not to do.  Arthur saw the anger there, the hurt, and most strongly the disappointment, the knowledge that Arthur was not and never would be the man he wanted him to be.  

He hoped it burned in him, the way it burned in Arthur.

Merlin did not say a word as he swept out of the room.

 

**

 

After that, Merlin stayed in his shadows and never sought him out again.

 

**

 

Until.

 

**

 

“Are we nearly there, then?”  Arthur demanded. He was not used to following anyone, much less Merlin, whose ability to ride dragons seemed to have come at the expense of his horsemanship.

“Not in the least,” Merlin called back.  “I could speed this up for you, if you like,” he said, bringing his horse to an abrupt stop so Arthur nearly ran him down.  

“No, don’t - Llamrei would spook.”

“Llamrei is more accustomed to my magic than my mother.  You didn’t really think I mucked your stables out by hand all those years, did you?  But have it your way, I hope your kingdom doesn’t fall to ruin during the journey.” With that, he kicked his mare back into a gallop, leaving Arthur to follow, a string of curses falling from his lips.

“How is it you weren’t executed your first month in Camelot,” he asked when he caught up again.  “You expect me to believe that none of the stable boys noticed you vanishing vast amounts of horse manure?”

“Believe it or not, Arthur, when there’s less manure people don’t tend to ask many questions.  When it multiplies, that’s when they get suspicious, but trust me, messing up that spell once was more than enough.” 

Arthur decided not to ask.  “And where exactly are you taking me?  Is this some harebrained scheme to assassinate me and install Gwen on the throne?” 

“Of course not.  I wouldn’t have to leave the citadel for that.  And since we’ve got about another eight days journey you need to stop asking quite so often.”

This time Arthur pulled up short, which was slightly less effective as Merlin was ahead of him and didn’t notice for several dozen meters.  He trotted to catch up as Merlin looked patiently at him with that expression that meant he knew a tantrum was coming and hoped Arthur would get it out of his system quickly; a look that never failed to infuriate him further.

“Eight days?  You do realize I’m the _King,_ or has all that magic left no room for sense in your head?  You can’t kidnap me -”

“I didn’t kidnap you, you invited yourself along,” Merlin reminded him.

“You said you could help, not that you wanted to go on a holiday to the bloody seashore.  Gwen will send the knights after us when we don’t return, I can’t just vanish for a fortnight to follow you about around the countryside without telling anyone.  I’m in the middle of a peace negotiation, you idiot, what were you _thinking_.”

“Well to be quite honest, I never thought you would come, did I?”

Arthur paused to catch his breath. He felt winded, as though he’d run through drills in full armor.  

“And then once I saw you head toward the stables I remembered you would want to ride and I just sort of forgot how long things take this way.  So you’re free to head back, but you should take my horse with you too. I’ll cross the border by nightfall.” Merlin wasn’t meeting his eye anymore, his voice distant and cold.

Arthur wanted to growl with frustration, but he wasn’t exactly sure at what.  Merlin never used to give up so easily, surrender before Arthur even had a chance to fight; it knocked the wind out of his sails.  “Why did you offer if you didn’t want me to come along?”

“It’s not - it was just a stupid idea and I thought I could help.  But you’re going to hate it anyway and all that shouting will just irritate Kilgarrah so it’s best this way.  I’ll see you next time your kingdom is in mortal peril.”

“Stop that.  No one asked you to come back at every whisper of danger, you know.”

“No, you’ve made it quite clear you don’t want my help, no matter how much you may need it.” 

“Merlin,” Arthur started, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say.   _I don’t need your help_ , sounded foolish even to his own ears, and _I don’t want it_ , was too tangled in truth and lies.  “Why did you come back?” he asked instead.  

“I _told_ you, Bayard -” 

“No.  You could have told Gwaine about Bayard’s plans during one of your illegal tavern escapades.  You could have passed the message on to Gaius when you meet him at the market every fortnight.  There was no need for you to barge into the council in your ridiculous cloak like that, so I want to know why." 

There was something defeated in the line of Merlin’s shoulders now that Arthur hated.  “You’re treating with the Druids,” he said at length, eyes on the forest floor.

“Thought I’d mess it up, did you?" 

“ _No_ ,” Merlin said, voice harsh and urgent.  “You’re treating with the Druids and magic is returning to the land; the harvests have been bountiful and your people grow strong.  Do you know in Escetir a bard tells a story about Gwaine surviving a headman’s blow? Your men and your deeds are becoming legend, Arthur.  That is why Bayard is attacking, not because he thinks Camelot is weak but because he sees it growing too strong and he fears what will come.”

“And you?  Do you fear it, too?” _Do you fear what I will do with this power_ , he did not ask, _that it will poison me as it did my sister, my father_.

But Merlin’s face softened as though he could hear the unspoken words.  “This is what I stayed for, Arthur. You asked if I was miserable as your servant and I wasn’t, not truly.  I didn’t lie when I said I’d be happy to serve you until the day I die. Because of the great king you are destined to become - that you are becoming.  So I wanted to see for myself.”

Arthur’s chest felt tight, like his chainmail was shrinking, choking him.  “And what did you see?” he asked. 

“Somehow, against all odds and your own nature, you’ve become wise.  Your men are strong and loyal and clever. You know who to listen to and who to ignore, and who you must pretend to listen to.  You have made your own choices on what is just and what is not and you are making the changes you believe in. And if the price of that is that I don’t get to stand by your side, then it’s one I’m willing to pay.”  Merlin went quiet, his eyes shining. “But I just had to see it for myself, once.”

Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat that told him this was, in Merlin’s strange way, a goodbye.  An owl hooted in the distance and Merlin’s eyes sharpened, as though listening. Perhaps he was; there was still so much Arthur did not know, so many years and lies between them.  And for all he may stand tall and speak strongly, Merlin had not outgrown his petty deceptions.

“You’re lying,” Arthur said, only sure of the words as they leave his mouth.  Merlin startled. “If you wanted to see the sort of king I am you did not need reveal yourself to me.  You could have disguised yourself as the old man, or the cobbler as you did last winter.” Merlin’s jaw fell and Arthur congratulated himself on being able to get one over on him, for once.  “You could have hidden with your magic and skulked around the shadows as you do and had all the answers you sought.

“You came to me as yourself, you spoke to me as you used to.  You laid in front of my fire and snuck into my rooms while I slept.  You laughed at me and joked with me, to what end. You have only ever been a coward in this one way, Merlin, and you insult us both with your lies.”

He could feel it now, the rush of Merlin’s magic in the trees, between the blades of grass.  There was something heightened in the forest, as though nature itself was yearning to respond to its master, eager for direction.  He did not know how he could have missed it all those years, how he could have written it off to dumb luck, but he would not hide from the truth, not anymore.

And Merlin was never one to back down from a challenge.  His cheeks flushed but he looked Arthur in the eye when he said, “I wanted to know if you still hated me.”

The air between them stilled.  Blood rushed to Arthur’s ears and it took him a moment to identify the anger brewing in his gut, the temper and fury that had always belonged to Merlin.  “If _I_ \- do you know the way you look at me now?  Like I’m everything you dreaded I would become, like I’ve failed before I even had a chance,” but even as he said it, he tasted the lie in the words.  It was the expression Merlin had worn when he threw his olive branch in his face, when he offered him a bribe for what he had always known Merlin would give him freely.  But since that day Merlin had never stayed still long enough to allow Arthur glimpse of his face, allowing that conversation to fester in his memory until it eclipsed all others.

He longed for the boy he'd thought he’d known and resented the sorcerer he became, but forgot the man he was in between.  

During his epiphany, Merlin had finally found his own anger.  “The way I look at you? You’re the one who threw me out, exiled me from my home, my _family_.  I gave up everything for you, I protected your father who would sooner have me on the pyre than thank me, and you treat me like a common criminal.  You’ll allow magic back into your kingdom but still look at me like I’m dirt beneath your shoes, like my help, my magic, is a necessary evil when it was only ever meant to serve you!”

Merlin’s chest was heaving; the branches swayed in the wind.  The land and skies at his fingertips, years of bitterness and resentment all contained to making a few stray, dying leaves fall from their perches.  Arthur felt himself deflate, wondered what it was about Merlin that made his rage such a slippery thing, falling out of his grip as soon as he had grasped it.

“If you’re planning to raze another forest we should go deeper,” he said, eye on the tight line of Merlin’s back.  “The smoke disturbs the villagers.”

Merlin looked mutinous.  “I did not _raze_ that forest.  The idiot children set fire to the trees which _I_ stopped and saved the entire bloody village, but of course it ends up being my fault.”

“My men claimed you were battling a ferocious dragon.”

There is a spark of fire, then, extinguished as soon as it’s lit, as if just to prove Merlin’s point.  “I’m a Dragonlord, Arthur. It would be a short battle. You musn’t listen to every tall tale you hear.”

“And Gwaine did not truly survive the blow of a headman’s axe.  My knights are not the only ones becoming legends.”

“The people have too much time on their hands, spreading these tales.  Perhaps you should kill another unicorn, give them some real troubles.”

Arthur glared at him half-heartedly.  He thought of Merlin, alone in a forest, saving villagers for no reward except ridiculous half-true stories.  He thought of himself, inviting bard after bard to the castle, listening too closely for hints of the man underneath the myth.  

Llamrei fidgeted, bored of their stalemate.  Arthur found he was as well.

“So what was it, then.  Your grand idea to appease the Druids.”

Merlin glanced up at him and some of the familiar nervous energy returned to his posture.  “Well. You need somewhere to keep the magical artifacts. The Druids do not trust you with them and you do not trust the Druids with them.  So I thought, perhaps, there was someone you would each distrust equally.”

To think, this was the sort of wise counsel Arthur had missed these past years.  “What, did you want to hand them over to Morgana? Shall I give her Excalibur as well?  Perhaps my crown, while I’m at it.”

“Of course not.  But I happen to know someone who has quite a large collection of priceless relics, and a long history of protecting them.”

Arthur raised his brow.  “And this mysterious, wealthy friend would be…”

Merlin mumbled something unintelligible.  

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“The Great Dragon.”

“The Great Dragon.”

“He has a lair.  And you know dragons guard their treasures fiercely.  They would be safer with him than anywhere in the kingdom.”

“The Great Dragon I killed?”

“Yes, Arthur.  That Great Dragon.”

There were so many things to say to that, so many questions and accusations, but looking into Merlin’s bright, uncowed eyes he could only think of one.

“Do you know what Sir Kay would say about this?”

Merlin grinned at him, eyes crinkling in the corners.  “The thought had occurred, yes.”

Arthur felt the tug of an answering grin on his own lips.  He had always been helpless in the face of that mischievous glint in Merlin’s eyes, those stupid, unguarded smiles that he had to fight not to mirror.  He could no longer remember why it had always seemed so important to hide the fact that Merlin made him laugh, made him happy.

He made a choice, then.

“Well, then perhaps you ought to show me this lair.  And see if you can’t get us there in less than a month, would you?”

Arthur felt the magic sizzling in the air, ghosting down his spine, warm and familiar.

Merlin’s face was not unguarded now; his eyes searched Arthur’s warily, seeking doubt, fear, any excuse to end their tentative truce.  Arthur knew he would find it, knew his own weaknesses nearly as well as he knew Merlin’s. He could see how it would go, how it had gone, could see Merlin pulling away, their masks sliding back over their faces, bringing their destinies closer and pulling themselves further from the boys they once were.  

He reached out, clasped Merlin’s hand in his own.  “Now, Merlin,” he said, before he could doubt.

Merlin’s fingers tightened around his wrist and he did not hesitate.

 


End file.
